


You’re My Refuge

by TheJediAssassinGirl



Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Angst and Fluff, I love Ben Tyler Cook’s Race, M/M, Race in the Refuge, all of the characters are based on Newsies Live yada yada yada
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-15 18:55:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18505027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheJediAssassinGirl/pseuds/TheJediAssassinGirl
Summary: Race is taken to the Refuge during the strike and Spot’s world shatters.





	You’re My Refuge

There was a time where the sight of Jack Kelly walking along the streets of Brooklyn would’ve made Spot Conlon’s blood boil, but those days had passed. When Spot had started a relationship with Jack’s right-hand-man, Racetrack Higgins, Race had insisted that the two settle their differences, and Jack and Spot had gone from enemies to allies to maybe friends. Now Spot didn’t mind when Jack came, since he usually brought Race with him and Race would stay the night with Spot. One day when Jack came to Brooklyn, however, Spot knew something was wrong. Jack’s back was hunched, his body was spotted with bruises, and his expression was a mix of sadness, anger, and guilt. On top of that, Race wasn’t with him.

“Jack,” Spot said. “Where’s Race?” Jack looked at the ground and said nothing. “Jack,” Spot repeated, worry clawing at him. “Where is he? Is he alright?” He knew that the Manhattan newsies were striking against Joseph Pulitzer, who had raised the price of papers to 60¢ per hundred. Jack had approached Spot, asking for his help, but Spot had been apprehensive.

“The bulls found us,” Jack mumbled, still looking at the pavement. “Surrounded us. A couple a them grabbed Buttons. Race tried ta help, but…” he trailed off. The worry in Spot’s heart turned to icy fear.

“Jack, where’s Race?” He asked again.

“They took him ta the Refuge,” Jack said, and just like that, Spot’s world shattered. He dug his fingernails into his palms, barely hearing as Jack continued. “He fought real well, he was just surrounded. Managed ta hurt a couple a them real bad before they knocked him out an’ dragged him away.” Tears streamed down Spot’s face. He knew how much the prospect of getting taken back to the Refuge _terrified_ Race. Race had told him about it one night after waking up from a nightmare, about the horrible conditions and the lack of food and the cruel guards. Race couldn’t have been taken there. Not his Racer, all long limbs and pale skin, soft edges and beautiful blue eyes. Going back to the Refuge would crush him.

“Where’s Snyder,” Spot demanded.

“Huh?” Jack asked.

“Where’s. Snyder?” Spot growled.

“Spot, you can’t go try an’ soak him!” Jack protested. They’ll kill ya or they’ll take you too or… or they’ll take it out on Race. They’ll whip him real bad because someone tried ta rescue him. I’ve seen it happen, Spot ya gotta trust me!” His lip quivered, and through his tears Spot could see that Jack was about to cry too. “I’m sorry,” Jack said as tears poured down his cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Spot. This is all my fault. I shoulda helped him but…” he gulped. “But they took Crutchie too. I had ta try an’ help Crutchie first. I’m sorry. You can soak me if ya want. I deserve it.”

“Did ya save Crutchie?” Spot asked.

“No,” Jack said miserably. “They’re both in that hellhole, an’ it’s all my goddamn fault. I failed all a them!”

“Is there any way for them ta talk ta us guys out here?” Spot asked. Jack nodded.

“I know Crutchie’s got pencils an’ paper,” he said. “I’ll bring him some more an’ tell him ta tell Race ta write ta you.” Spot nodded.

“Thanks,” he said.

“It’s the least I can do,” Jack said. “Seein’ as I’m the reason he’s in that situation anyway.” He started to walk away.

“Jack!” Spot called. Jack turned. “Brooklyn’s got your back,” Spot says. “I promise.”

 

Race lay on the hard, lumpy, uncomfortable mattress in his bunk bed in the Refuge. He could hear the rats scuttling around on the floor below him, louder than Crutchie’s muffled sobs coming from next to him. _God_ , he hated rats. How could he have been so stupid? Why did he think he could take on three cops all by himself? Why didn’t he get Albert or Elmer or literally _anyone_ else to back him up? Finally, Race was able to drift off to sleep, but even that was no comfort.

_In his dreams, he saw Spot sitting on his bed in Brooklyn’s lodging house, holding a picture frame. Race recognized the frame immediately. Shortly after he’d told Jack that he and Spot were a couple, Race had managed to nag Jack into drawing little portraits of him and Spot. The portrait of Spot was kept in a locket that always hung around Race’s neck, and the picture of Race had been nicely framed and often sat on Spot’s bedside table. Now, however, Spot held it in both hands, sitting hunched over on his bed, the bed that he and Race so often shared. A tear dripped down Spot’s cheek and landed on the glass of the frame, quickly followed by another, then another. With a jolt, Race realized that this was the first time he’d ever seen Spot cry._

_“God, Racer,” Spot whispered. “I’m so sorry. I shoulda come an’ helped, like you an’ Jack asked. I shoulda been there for ya!” Race wanted nothing more than to dry Spot’s tears, to tell him everything was gonna be okay, but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. Spot held the frame to his chest as he curled into the fetal position, tears soaking his pillow._

 

Spot was having a hard time. Days without Race had turned into weeks, and weeks had turned into months. A month before, the letters from Race that Jack brought him every week had stopped coming.

“They must a moved him,” Jack had said, looking apologetic. “He wasn’t in the bed he was in before. I couldn’t find him in any a the other windows neither, an’ the other boys wouldn’t tell me where he is.” Now, though Spot was able to act normal in front of his boys, he felt hollow. He was constantly worried, scared that any day now, Jack would come to see him with the news that Race was dead. Spot helped Manhattan with their strike, but barely. He was always careful not to do anything that might get Race in trouble. He couldn’t bear the thought of Race getting hurt because of him. He knew the other boys were whispering about him, calling him a coward and a weakling, but he didn’t care. He just wanted Race back. When Jack delivered the news that Pulitzer had backed down, that the strike was over, Spot simply responded with a small nod and a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He couldn’t bring himself to care about anything anymore.

 

Race lay in his bunk, aching. As soon as Snyder had found out that Race was giving Jack notes through the broken window by his bed, he’d been furious. Race had spent three agonizing days in the dark basement without food, chained to the wall as Snyder beat him daily. At least they’d moved Crutchie with him, so he still had a friend, but all Race wanted was Spot. He wanted Spot to touch him, to kiss him. To rub the salve that Elmer’s mother made on his bruises, to hold him close and tell him everything was gonna be alright. The only thing keeping him going was the tiny charcoal drawing of his lover, contained in the precious locket around Race’s neck. One day, Snyder didn’t come back from one of his frequent outings. A low buzz of confusion and excitement moved through the Refuge as the boys speculated about where he might be.

“Race, didja hear?” Crutchie asked excitedly. “They’re sayin’ that Snyder got arrested, or maybe that he’s _dead_!”

“That’s great, Crutchie,” Race said dully. The door opened, and people came in. Everyone peered over the sides of their bunks to see who it was, but not Race. He didn’t care.

“Jack!” Crutchie cried. Race sat up, watching as two embraced, kissing each other deeply. Race was happy for them, really he was, but watching their reunion just made him miss Spot all the more.

“Snyder got sent ta prison for misappropriatin’ state funds!” Jack said. “This dump’s gettin’ shut down, and all a you are gettin’ released!” He hugged Race. Race winced as Jack pressed against his many bruises. “Sorry,” Jack said, letting go. “I just missed my best friend.” Race forced a smile.

“I missed ya too, Jack,” he said.

“C’mon, let’s get the two a you outta here,” Jack said. He handed Crutchie his crutch and the three of them walked into the cool, sweet-smelling air. That night, the lodging house was filled with the noise of celebration, but Race didn’t feel like celebrating. He saw a lot of the Brooklyn newsies among the crowd, but he didn’t see the one that he wanted the most. Jack put a hand on Race’s shoulder.

“Go on up to the penthouse,” he said. “I can tell you ain’t feelin’ like celebratin’. You can stay up there for as long as you like, alright?”

“Thanks, Jack,” Race said, immediately heading to the roof. He leaned against the fence surrounding the rooftop, looking towards Brooklyn. _Where was Spot?_ Then, he heard footsteps and voices coming up the fire escape.

“I don’t see why you’s makin’ me do this.”

“C’mon, it’ll be worth your while, I promise.”

“I said I wanted ta be left alone!”

“You _always_ say that!”

“Yeah, because I wanna be left alone!”

“Please, just a little farther.”

“Ugh, fine.” Race turned as two figures climbed the final ladder up to the roof. One of them was Jack. The other one wasn’t. The other figure was short and muscular and-

“Spot!” Race gasped.

“Racer?” Spot asked, then: “Racer!” He ran forward and hugged Race tight. It hurt, but Race didn’t care. In that moment, there was only him and Spot. Spot sobbed into Race’s chest, and Race held on for dear life, his tears dripping into Spot’s hair.

“M’sorry,” Spot finally choked out. “I’m so sorry, Racer. I was selfish. I shoulda come an’ helped when you an’ Jack asked me to. I coulda stopped this whole thing from happenin’. Coulda protected ya. It’s my fault.”

“Spot Conlon, don’t you fuckin’ dare blame yourself for this,” Race said, wiping his eyes. “It ain’t your fault. It’s Snyder’s fault. It’s Pulitzer’s fault. It’s the DeLanceys’ fault for sellin’ us out. It’s my fault for bein’ dumb an’ tryin ta take on three cops at once by myself. But it sure as hell ain’t your fault. You may look like a god, but you ain’t one. You’re just human, an’ you can’t protect everyone. So stop blamin’ yourself for this.” Spot chuckled wetly, gently caressing Race’s cheekbone with his thumb.

“God, you’s a sight for sore eyes, Racetrack Higgins,” he said softly. Race’s face—his entire body, actually—was a watercolor canvas painted with a rainbow of bruises. Blues and purples mixed with greens and yellows, and here and there a red cut slashed across the pale skin. Race leaned in and kissed Spot, savoring every second. He hadn’t fully realized how much he’d missed this: the taste of Spot’s lips, the feeling of his calloused hands cupping Race’s face, the scent that always managed to calm Race down.

“You’s so skinny,” Spot whispered. “C’mon, we’s goin’ back down ta your room, an’ I’m takin’ care a you.” Race smiled.

“Alright, Spottie,” he said. Spot took Race’s hand and led him down to his room in the lodging house.

“I’ve been usin’ your room,” Spot said as he gently picked Race up and set him on the bed. “Hope ya don’t mind.”

“You can use my room anytime ya want, beautiful,” Race replied. “It’s better than the alternative. Albert probably woulda shat on the bed before he let me have it back.”

“Not really?” Spot said, looking disgusted.

“Yeah, really,” Race said. “What, don’t ya have pranksters in Brooklyn?”

“Yeah, but we’re all semi-civilized human beings who don’t shit on beds,” Spot said.

“Well, we don’t _all_ do that,” Race said. “It’s really just Albert. An’ he only did it once. Jack told him that if he did it again, he’d get kicked out.” Spot smiled.

“You Manhattan boys are really somethin’ else,” he said. “You stay put. I’m goin’ ta get ya some food.”

“Kiss me again before ya go?” Race asked.

“Racer, I’ll be gone for five minutes,” Spot protested, but Race pouted at him and he caved. “God, you’s so needy,” he mumbled as he kissed Race slowly, tenderly. He left, and came back three minutes later with a sizeable hunk of bread, a piece of cheese, half a sausage, an apple, a piece of cake, and a cup of water.

“Where’s that magic bruise stuff ya got?” Spot asked as Race started eating.

“Top drawer,” Race replied, his mouth full of bread and cheese. “It’s the little green jar.” Spot found the appropriate jar and closed the drawer. He gently removed Race’s vest, then his outer shirt, then his undershirt.

“Oh Racer,” he whispered as he took in the full extent of his lover’s injuries. There were more bruises, and Race’s pale back was covered in red lines from where Snyder had whipped him.

“S’alright, Spottie,” Race mumbled, now spraying Spot with bits of apple. “M’okay now.”

“It ain’t alright, darlin’,” Spot said. “You shouldn’t a had ta go through that. No one should. Also, that’s disgustin’.” He wiped the bits of half-chewed apple and flecks of saliva off his face, and opened the jar. Race almost moaned in relief as Spot gently rubbed the salve on his many bruises. He finished the cake, and rolled over so that Spot could put the salve on his chest and face, too.

“Need anythin’ else, love?” Spot asked.

“Take off your shirt?” Race asked. “It’ll help me heal.” Spot laughed.

“Oh really?” He said.

“Yeah,” Race replied.

“Well, if ya say so,” Spot said. He took off his shirt and suspenders and got into bed with Race. The mattress wasn’t exactly top-notch, but after months in the Refuge, Race felt like he was sleeping on a bed of clouds. He kissed Spot, snuggling closer.

“I missed ya, Spottie,” he said.

“I missed ya too, Racer,” Spot replied. “Go ta sleep. I’ll be there when ya wake up.” Race nodded.

“Love you,” he mumbled as he drifted off.

“Love you too,” Spot replied, kissing his head softly. There was a knock on the door, and Jack came in.

“He asleep?” He asked.

“Yeah,” Spot replied. “An’ I ain’t wakin’ him back up. If ya wanna talk ta him, you’ll have ta do it tomorrow.”

“Actually, I wanted ta talk ta you,” Jack said. “Wanted ta thank you for helpin’ with the strike.”

“Aw, I wasn’t much help,” Spot said. “I was too focused on keepin’ Race safe ta be any help.”

“You did help,” Jack insisted. “If you hadn’t given us your support, no one else woulda supported us neither, and we’d all be dead or in the Refuge by now. You’s welcome in Manhattan anytime. You know you’ve always gotta bed here, an’ I’ll make sure my boys don’t mess with ya.”

“Thanks, Jack,” Spot said. “An’ thanks for helpin’ me through this.”

“It’s nothin’,” Jack said. “We’s a family now, An’ that’s what families do. I’ll let ya get some sleep. See ya tomorrow.”

“See ya,” Spot replied. Jack left, and Spot carefully wrapped his arms around Race’s waist. Race sighed peacefully in his sleep and nuzzled his nose into Spot’s neck. Spot smiled. He had Race back, and for now, everything was perfect.


End file.
